Possession Is Nine-Tenths Of The Job
by BasementOfTheMansion
Summary: [THE THRILLING ADVENTURE HOUR - BEYOND BELIEF] [Pre-canon] Down on his luck as per always, ex-exorcist Frank Doyle is offered a consulting gig by rival paranormal investigator Pterodactyl Jones. But will there be more to the case than first meets the eye? (...Of course there will be. Haven't you seen any book, movie or television show ever?)


_This tale is set before Frank and Sadie met, back in Frank's mysterious yet oft-referenced past. (Heavily references "The Devil and Mr. Jones" and "Nun's The Word," Beyond Believers.)_

* * *

Fedora pulled low and trenchcoat whipping in an ill wind, the detective paused in the open doorway of the bar, scanning the patrons. From somewhere behind him, a reverberating ghostly keening could be heard, provided you had the right kind of ears.

He stopped, fixed his sights on one figure, and walked with deliberate strides to where the other man was waterboarding his sorrows in drink.

"Hey, Doyle, I need your help on a case I'm working."

Frank Doyle-fearsome in deed, legendary in bars, public enemy number one in just about every circle of Hell-didn't even bother to look up from his glass. But then again, that was usually the case. "Well, well, well... I never thought I'd see the day when Pterodactyl Jones, P.I. would deign to ask for my help. Then again, perhaps I'm being generous in implying you asked, because you clearly didn't."

"Look," Jones said, sitting down at the bar beside Frank. "I know there's been some bad blood between us, but I wouldn't be begging favors off you if I weren't staring down the barrel of a bleak situation. I can handle a haunting as well as the next fellow, but that's not what this is. The dame lied to me up front, or plain didn't know, but she dragged me into a possession. That's delicate work, and a damn sight beyond my ken."

"So? Why call me? The Church'll sweep in on a possession from word jump. Why exactly come to a quote 'defrocked bottomfeeder who steals the work out from under every honest ghostbuster in the city' unquote, attribution Pterodactyl Jones, all factual errors in context?"

"You think I'm going to get paid for this if the Church comes in?"

"Ah, that sounds more like you, Jonesy."

"What do you say, then, Doyle?"

"I say no."

"Come on, I'll buy you a drink first."

"One drink?"

"Okay, several."

"You're getting closer."

"Many."

"I accept your terms. Begrudgingly," Frank told him as he gestured for the bartender.

* * *

"Who's that?" the client hissed under her breath, glancing sharply over at Jones's companion.

"That? That's Frank Doyle. Brought him in since you didn't bother to enlighten me to your real problem. He's a wizard with the holy water and you're gonna need it. Don't worry. He's not too bad when he's drunk, and he's always drunk."

"Really?" Her brow creased skeptically.

"Trust me, with what he's seen, you would be, too. Leave it at that."

"Okay, okay. So, can you do something now?"

"I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

"Well," Frank said loudly, "If you're done having that completely audible conversation about me, might I suggest that we take a look at the possess-ee?"

"Oh, yes, sorry." She ran a hand through her hair, which was as limp and frazzled as the rest of her, and led them on.

They stopped before a bedroom door. "I... Do you need me to do anything?" she asked.

"Wouldn't mind a drink," Frank said offhandedly, rummaging through his pockets. She glanced at Jones, who nodded slightly.

"Um, okay. Anything in particular?"

"Alcohol. Only alcohol, actually. I should have specified."

"Okay, I'll just... go then."

When she was gone, Jones leveled a look at Frank. "Shall we?"

"Might as well."

The door creaked open at a mere touch. A distended rectangle of light fell into the dark room, illuminating an empty bed, the blankets torn aside and strewn haphazardly.

"Wh-" Jones began, turning to Frank, who was, quite casually, pointing upward.

A figure in ragged white crouched on the ceiling, eyes glowing like a dog's at night. It was very still, and very, very creepy.

"There are a couple of options here," Frank said, nearly academically. "First is this holy water-" he held up a vial between two fingers-"but this stuff's expensive. Second is one of a myriad of Latin texts I have memorized, and those are quite free and will boil a demon in the skin suit where it stands. And then there's your various and sundry rites, saying the creature's name three times, et cetera. Or," he continued, looking up, "You could stop playing around, come down here and save the both of us the trouble."

The girl creature on the ceiling shook her head very slowly, her long dark hair moving like seaweed in a current.

"Oh, come off it. You can fool your mother and Jonesy here into thinking you're possessed, but I've seen the real McCoy. And might I add that you're lucky a demon hunter didn't catch wind of this nonsense, seeing as they tend to stab, burn, and obliterate first and ask questions never."

She hissed. It was phenomenally unpleasant. _"Your souls will circle in the depths of the bottommost ring of hell for all eternity!"_

"Creative, I'll admit, but rude." Frank unstoppered the bottle and flicked a drop of holy water upward. It hit her on the cheek. Nothing happened. "Bluff called, Creepy."

The figure wavered, then, coming to a decision, scampered inhumanly fast down the wall and perched on the bed.

"I'm maybe not the most familiar with the habits of twelve year old girls, but that doesn't seem normal," Jones commented.

The girl sighed. "Yeah. I'm pretty creepy. Everyone says." Her voice was high and haunting, with a nearly subsonic tremor that scraped down the spine.

"So you are. But not demon creepy. Maybe there's an ancient line of witchcraft in your blood, maybe there's some changeling business going on, destined for community radio broadcasting... Frankly, it's not my concern. But you should probably give it a rest with the speaking in tongues and contortions and all."

She made a face. "But that's kind of my thing. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I don't know. You could channel your interests elsewhere, like..." Here he paused to rack his brains for things girls liked, but came up woefully short, and instead fell to the only things Kate and Mary enjoyed besides killing demons. "Drinking or boys or something."

"Come on, Frank, don't tell her to drink."

"Why not? Worked for me."

"Hardly."

She did look a bit intrigued, anyway. "But... Boys don't like me. Creepy, remember?"

"Are you kidding? Creepy is prime currency among lads your age. Do you have anything with insects or snakes?"

"Well, I am working on this thing with spiders..."

"Good, open with that!"

She smiled and they both shuddered involuntarily.

"So, then, we're done with the fake possession bit, right?"

"Oh, alright..."

"Well, we wouldn't want your mother to think she paid us for nothing. Care to make a show of it on the way out?"

She brightened at that.

* * *

The mother cautiously crept down the hall, glass in hand like a shield. Her daughter was wailing again, but she was getting used to that.

With a mighty bang, the door burst open and slapped the wall. Wild torrents of wind gusted out, carrying redoubled wailing twinned with Frank's stentorian voice chanting an unbroken chain of something guttural in a dead language. She stopped in her tracks, saucer-eyed.

There were flashes, like miniature lightning, and the girl's unearthly moan grew and crescendoed into a bloodcurdling scream that went on far, far too long then cut off without warning. The wind died, everything grew still and very quiet.

Matter of factly, Frank Doyle stepped out into the hall, running an ordering hand through his wind-tossed hair. Jones followed, somberly adjusting his trenchcoat.

"Thank you," Frank said breezily, plucking the glass from her trembling hand, draining it like water and discarding it on a table as he headed for the door.

She stared after him for a long second, then turned back to Jones.

"Now," he began, "To discuss my fee..."

Frank stood on the street, listening politely to the shrieking lizard howl of the ghostly pterodactyl.

"Oh, really? I had assumed that myself, given the evidence, but you'd never imagine what the Church tried to teach on that front."

Another monstrous cry.

"You can say that again."

Jones pushed the front door open. "Oh, good, Doyle, you're still here." He walked the steps and handed the other man some folded bills. Frank blinked at him and he clarified. "It's your half. Minus the tab from earlier."

"Huh. I must say, I didn't exactly expect this from you."

"Come on, I'm not such a bad guy. And neither are you. Let's just call it even from now on."

"Easy for you to say. You were the one slinging all the slander."

"Really? I seem to recall being called a shoddy parody of a Raymond Chandler character who couldn't take on a will o' the wisp without my pet dinosaur."

"Ah, yes, I was rather proud of that one..."

"It's not half-bad, I'll admit."

"Well, bygones being bygones and so forth, I'll just be on my way. This paycheck isn't going to drink itself." He nodded at Harvey, who returned the gesture.

"See you around then, Doyle?"

"Sure, Jonesy. Sure." He turned and walked away, an erect figure unbowed by the trailing burdens of his past and betrayed only occasionally by a drunken sway.

The ghostly dinosaur bellowed a long, low note.

"Come on, Harv," Jones scoffed. "Don't get maudlin about it."

* * *

_A/N: I wrote this way back around April 2012, back before there was really much of a TAH fandom to speak of, but what with a certain other podcast exploding the internet, I figured it was about time, so I dusted this off and shine it up a bit._

_Thanks to corduroyzebra (aka stefwith1f) for betaing and advice. Please go read her wonderful Beyond Belief fic, "Home Imp-vasion," on ArchiveOfOurOwn dot org._


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